The Story of My Wife (40 page)

I freely admit that my tears began to flow and fell on my food in front of me. And if the manager of the Brighton hadn't sat down next to me, I would have really started bawling. Not only because of what I'd just realized . . . though the mere fact that I was still sitting there under those brilliant lights did move me. Except in real life nothing is
all
nice: the manager began jabbering away, much to my annoyance.

"Sailors," he said, "what a dreadful lot." (It was his peculiar way of making me feel good, I suppose.) Once he went rowing with two of these loutish characters (they
are
loutish, most of them, didn't I agree?), and he had to keep telling them:
"Aber nicht spassen Sie, meine Herren, nicht Spassen Sie, meine Herren.
(That dimwit was also a foreigner, an Austrian—London is full of strangers.) Could I guess what they were up to? he went on. They started rocking the boat and, laughing uproariously, were ready to rock me right into the ocean.

"In a way you are just like them," the manager went on complimenting me. "You are also a wild one . . . Why, there's the bottle again in front of you. You drank all night, and now you are at it again . . . Why drink so much? This morning, or last night rather, it hurt me to look at you. (He also chuckled, as if he could just guess what that look concealed.) No but really, you do look a mess."

"What's that to you?" I said. "There's nothing wrong with my looks."

"Come now . . . You are being eaten alive by women. There's nothing underneath your skin any more. Except a little fat maybe."

"You don't say," I laughed.

"You are all chewed up, my friend," he said with a smile and rose from his chair.

"No I am not," I replied with great dignity.

"Yes, you are; you are all chewed up." He must have liked that word.

Luckily, he was called away, and I could again lose myself in reverie, and lose myself I did. I kept looking at the snow-cohered window panes and listened to the wind sing. For now there was indeed a storm outside, snow flurries mixed with rain—on the windows thick snowflakes gave way to raindrops. And cold drafts of air rushed in and out, making the curtains move. But it suddenly broke off—not the storm but the quiet around me ... As I was sitting there peacefully eating my dinner, still immersed in thought, in reverie, the sound of laughter, light, sweet, familiar laughter struck my ear.

"Wouldn't you know it? Eating red meats again. A true savage, so help me."

And at that moment I knew what to make of the dream I had the night before.

I can be very brief about what happened next.

First of all, I drank an awful lot, though that's not the point.

It was Mrs. Cobbet who stood before me, telling me to leave my dinner and go with her quickly—Kodor was waiting outside ... I could get whatever I wanted at his house, much better stuff than what I had here . . .Just like that, as if nothing had ever happened between us.

Kodor came to the Brighton, she went on, to order a few cases of his favorite wine and some choice cigars, and the manager told him I was here, wouldn't he like to see me. Of course he would: go and get me old Jacob, he said. And ever so sadly, too. Because he still cared for me a lot, even if I
had
given them the cold shoulder of late. He talked about me more than once and said he wanted very much to see me. Besides, he's been quite depressed lately, was no longer his old self. Couldn't I do it for her, spend the evening with them, as a special favor? It would make Kodor very happy.

"And me too," she added bashfully.

All this time I kept staring at her as if she were an apparition.

How very odd that she should show up just now, I thought. But she was real all right, in a mauve fur jacket, with diamonds in her ear. Her nails were perfectly polished, as were her teeth, her eyes—the woman looked perfect in every way, she sparkled like a gold watch . . . And add to this those sinful little fires in her eyes ... As I bent over to kiss her hand, she laughed. But I did it, I kissed it, and she let me, she didn't move or duck, but put up regally with this bit of chivalry, standing there tall and slender like a Christmas tree. Though such things are not even customary in England.

"Oh, Mrs. Cobbet," I told her, enraptured. And then: "Is this true? Am I really seeing you again?" And other such phrases ... I plumb forgot to be angry with her.

In other words, it was the same story all over again. Yet, for me to fly into raptures over meeting
anyone,
or in any case to act like such a jellyfish, was . . . was unheard of. And the truth is I never did act this way before. To back down, to take flight—these were moves I had not been familiar with before. Faced with a challenge, I usually pause and then meet it head on. But not this time. This time I balked, I shrank back, there's just no other way to put it or explain it. There was such a burning desire in me to live again, such an uncontrollable and passionate yearning, I thought come hell or high water, I shall not lie dormant, shall not sleep again, nor return to that awful, dingy hotel room, but go out, walk around, talk, do
something,
for God's sake, to keep me from going mad.

But then maybe I should take the morning train to Cuxhaven. Actually the thought occurred to me as soon as I laid my eyes on this luminous creature, while staring at the glittering rings in her ears, at her flushed face, at her smouldering eyes . . . How these creatures love to live. As though they just got started, and then started anew every minute, again and again . . .

But what about me? Was I no longer interested? Didn't I want any of it any more? It's easy to say, of course: that's it, I've had enough. But when you yourself make the first move . . . What was it that charming maid told me the night before? "Why are you always in the dark?"

Kodor was writing out telegrams in the lobby with a gold pen, and ordered Mrs. Cobbet to pick out the wine.

"Have them put some in the car," he commanded. "We can take it with us; I feel like drinking." Mrs. Cobbet did as he said but then remembered to ask:

"Do you think you ought to?"

"Yes," Kodor replied, pragmatically and unequivocally, and continued writing. "Nothing can hurt me, I am made of heavy metal," he added, amusing himself, as usual, with homegrown witticism. I noticed right away how rudely he treated Mrs. Cobbet, and at the same time how very friendly he seemed toward me.

"Ah, it's so strange to see you," he said. "Lotty talked about you so often . . ."

So that's how it was: She said it was Kodor who kept talking about me, and he said she did . . .

I must say, though, he looked sharp. No sign of depression that I could see; if anything he looked stockier, more substantial. And more solemn, too, more formal, as though he'd just walked out of a barber shop. Nothing slovenly about him, his pockets weren't bulging as in the old days. He wore black—brand new black, at that; a fine hat, fine gloves, and all of it understated. There was only one bit of shiny yellow flashing through his fingers: the gold handle of his cane.

So he became a gentleman, finally, how do you like that? A genuine millionaire. Quite a change from the quirky con-man I once knew.

But didn't the man go bankrupt? Those shady oil deals . . . didn't they do him in? I tried to sniff out the cause of the change. But it wasn't anything like that. What his face reflected was something else, a kind of placid indifference, the same expression I must have had after my own vicissitudes. Even his gentleness was different. Strained.

"Ah, my dear friend," he said. (He never used that word before: not "friend" and not "ah.") "How
are
you, Jacob? (He never used to say that, either. He was never interested enough.) But why are you staying here? Why in a hotel? Got divorced perhaps?"

He still had his sharp eyes, the old scoundrel.

"Yes, I did," I answered quietly, and was surprised myself how easily the word slipped out.

"Quite right, quite right," Kodor said, stealing a glance at me from behind his spectacles. "Nothing wrong with getting a divorce.
If
you can go through with it." And he calmly went on scribbling.

But then we started out; the bottles of wine were put in the car, and we were off.

But let me interject two things here. First, I couldn't figure out what smelled of topsoil in that car, yes topsoil, or was it a dank cellar smell? Actually, freshly dug soil has that smell, or sod that's just been turned over. I had the terrible feeling that this time I really went off the deep end. How could I smell soil in the car? But then I
had
one hallucination already the night before, so it all made sense: I
was
going crackers.

There I was, smothered by the smell, yet I couldn't even say anything to them, lest they, too, lose their head. Those few minutes were sheer agony, I considered jumping out of the car.

Oh, but why does one cling to one's memories? Why hold on to them with all one's might? It's so futile, so utterly senseless. All
k
produces is pain and more pain. The past I can never change— according to Thomas Aquinas (whom I am reading just now), not even God himself can. If somebody never loved you, what's the use of reasoning or pleading? Move heaven and earth, dislodge the moon with your bare hands, still you will not change it. Yet, you keep straining, you rehash everything, wondering if it really happened that way, praying for a miracle, hoping that the mass of contradiction and pain—this hard and bitter lump—will somehow budge, give way, though it so happens, this pain is also impalpable, untraceable.

Where
is
my past anyway? What remains of it? What mark, what sign is there to show: this is how it was . . .? The waves subsided long ago.

But even if they have, can one ever acquiesce in this? Accept the inevitable, the unalterable; behold it, helpless, stupefied?

Oh, I loved her, of that there can be no doubt, loved her deeply, madly even . . . Yet, look where it's got me . . .

I broke out in a cold sweat by now. What was I really thinking about? What did the smell of freshly dug soil come to announce? I refused to believe it, I resisted it with all my being—it's the reason why I wanted to jump out of the moving car. Why, it's Lizzy's grave; I am anticipating Lizzy's grave!

The horrifying realization hit me and I thought I could take it no longer, could not cope with this anxiety.

And then Kodor chanced to remark: "Open the window, Lotty, will you? It's so stuffy in here. Smells like a cellar.

"Because she never asks them to wash the bottles," he turned to me. And to his mistress he said: "They must have brought it straight from the wine cellar."

As far as the effect his words had on me . . . only a drowning man could appreciate that. When he is pulled out of the water . . .

This is one of the items I wanted to cover. The other was over something else.

When Kodor ordered his chauffeur to drive home, I thought nothing of it. I was sure we were going to his house—he had his office there, I knew the area; I'd been there often enough. My surprise was all the greater when the car came to a halt on an unfamiliar street.

But then I remembered: this is where Mrs. Cobbet lived. I got out and started walking toward the door, thoughtless as always.

Luckily, I caught myself in time and turned around. The driver was unloading the wine from the backseat, while Kodor stood next to him and lit a cigar. It was raining again. He let me lead the way—to test me perhaps? Behind the glow of the cigar I could see his tranquil though watchful eyes.

There you have it, I thought; a simple nonchalant move can be quiet enough. He has the right idea. Why didn't I do that with that delivery boy back at the boarding house?

Because if I knew my way around here ... I'd better watch my step.

Could he be pulling the same sort of trick on me? Not telling me anything and just bringing me here?

But there was no follow-up. I drank a lot, too much, in fact. And handled Kodor rather curtly. Told him for instance that I was in Bruges, got a position, was put in charge of a vessel, and what's more, received permission to take someone with me. It was to be my wife, but that has changed now of course, since I got a divorce in the meantime. And all this in a matter of fact voice, just to see if he was going to make any snide remarks. And when, instead, he started telling me how happy he was to know that the good word he put in for me helped, I cut him off:

"It had no effect whatever. You had nothing to do with it. But never mind."

This silenced him finally. He grew very small, in my eyes at least—it was like looking at him through a pair of binoculars.

But he gave it another try: "Listen, Jacob, I know very well that an unimportant person like myself cannot . . ."

"Spare me the false modesty," I snapped. "You are not unimportant and you know it. The truth is you didn't knock yourself out. But let's just forget it."

In short, I stopped being Mister Nice. That crooked ladies man and his shabby tricks really got to me by now. I would have given my right arm to find out that he did come in for a fall, that he really did lose his shirt on that oil deal—that is what I wanted confirmed above all, it was my heart's most fervent desire. I took a long, hard look at him this time, and believe me, I didn't like what I saw. A rodent, I said to myself, that's what he is.

But enough about him. Mrs. Cobbet I treated much more gently, like an angel, or a beloved sister. Why this solicitude? Because I saw that for all her sparkle she was a very sad woman—
she
was the sad one, not her friend. I mentioned already how rough he was on her; well, I tried to be that much more courteous. I noticed something else, too, which never fails to have an effect on me: how very grateful she was for every scrap of attention. Is that how that woman really is? I wondered. That servile? The thought depressed me, because I had treated her wretchedly myself in the past.

But besides all that, you can't go on too long with only hatred in your heart. I had to start feeling tender toward
somebody.

"How nice you are to me tonight," she whispered in an unguarded moment, and even touched my arm. And her eyes, like a shady garden, had a warm, quiet glow.